


limbo; a doctor who/sherlock/discworld crossover

by zombeesknees



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett, Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005), Good Omens, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-09-24 12:26:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17100572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zombeesknees/pseuds/zombeesknees
Summary: What happens to our favorite villains when they're "off screen", as it were?A crossover fic set post s4 of DW, s1 of Sherlock, and just prior to the climax of Hogfather, featuring: The Master, Jim Moriarty, Mr. Teatime (and special cameo by Crowley). | Written many moons ago on LJ.





	limbo; a doctor who/sherlock/discworld crossover

In the beginning there was nothing. This much can be agreed upon. 

It’s what happened afterwards that has been the subject of endless debate. Some hold that a gray-bearded fellow created everything in seven days. Others that there was a rather big bang and an explosion of atoms. Others that a sky goddess got frisky with an earth god and the… well, _results_ were the world. And still others believed in a story that involved aliens and volcanoes—but no one really took them seriously. 

But while many groups argued about how everything started, many agreed that there was a place we went to when everything ended. The names were different (because people will never be able to agree on something for long before arguing over semantics): Hell, Heaven, Nirvana, Paradise, the Underworld, Limbo, the Dreamworld. 

If you were good, this final stop on the road of existence was beautiful and rife with untold delights and rewards. If you were _very_ naughty, it was a place of fire (or perhaps ice) and inhuman creatures more than happy to jab at your tender bits with sharp and pointy implements.

Or — if you were neither very good nor very bad — you went to a vague place and sat around for a very long time until one of the higher ups had time to review your files.

The three fellows gathered around a round table in just such a place shouldn’t, by all rights, be in this place. Murder, violent insanity, and wide scale property damage are universally considered to be very naughty things. But these three were here for reasons beyond the pale. 

Call it a… creative limbo.

“This place is dull, dull, _dull_ ,” the man in the pristine Westwood suit complained in a lilting sing-song. He leaned back in his chair until it creaked, staring up into the black abyss. (His name was Jim Moriarty.)

“It does deaden the senses,” the second man said in a deceptively quiet and childlike voice. He sat ramrod straight in his chair, staring across the table with a disconcerting, unfocused glaze. One eye mirrored the inky darkness surrounding the table—the other was almost entirely white, the pupil a mere pinprick. He had the look of a concussed and completely malevolent doll, with his cherubic features and golden curls. (His name was Jonathan Teatime.) “An assassin should have an affinity with and fondness for darkness, but this particular brand is oppressive even to me.”

The third of the trio sat hunched, shoulders drawn up, arm outstretched across the table, fingers tapping out a steady four beat rhythm. He wore a disgruntled grimace, dark brows drawn and forehead furrowed in preoccupation. (His name was… unknown. But he — and many others — called himself the Master.)

“Demeaning—like children forced into a time-out,” said Moriarty. Not that any of these men had ever suffered through a time-out. 

The first to attempt such a punishment on Moriarty had been forced to leave school for an unscheduled trip to the hospital following a strange allergic reaction brought on by an infinitesimal dusting of peanut shells over a ham sandwich. Teatime had never been sentenced to a time-out simply because a single stare from those mismatched eyes had too unnerved all of his teachers. And the Master didn’t understand the concept of a time-out; largely because his people did not believe in them, but also because the persistent and ever present drumbeat in his head ensured that he would never be able to have a pause for clear thought.

“So… What brings you fine and fancy gentlemen here?” Moriarty asked with every evidence of polite civility. “We might as well enjoy some conversation while we wait.”

“There was a girl,” Teatime said almost dreamily. “A most singular girl. Susan Sto Helit. She killed me,” he added as if in afterthought. “Pushed me from a balcony. Most embarrassing, really. My instructors at the Assassin’s Guild would be most displeased that I allowed a civilian to outmaneuver me. Even a girl as unique and extraordinary as Susan Sto Helit.”

“And what makes her so extraordinary?” the Master demanded, breaking his silence for the first time.

“She is Death’s granddaughter,” he replied, face placid. “And what, pray, is your story, sir? You look most unhappy.”

“That’s a word for it, I suppose,” he said with a sharp edge of sarcasm. “Being driven mad by your own people, turned into a homing signal for their own ends—that _would_ make a man a touch unhappy.”

“That’s too bad,” Moriarty said casually, sounding entirely unconcerned. 

“Are you dead, too, sir?” Teatime continued blithely.

“For now,” he said. “I can remember blasting the president—that bastard, making him wince and cry and _hurt_ —and the electricity and the terrible suction. And then I opened my eyes here. I know this place. I’ve been here a dozen times before, it seems, and no doubt I’ll return a dozen times more. People have compared me to a Terran insect called a cockroach,” he added with more animation, his eyes glazed suddenly with a manic light, and it wasn't difficult to believe him as mad as a Cockney hatter. “They intend it as an insult, but I’m rather flattered. Cockroaches survive _everything_ —they’ve a tenacity I admire. Too many underestimate the power of tenacity and resilience.”

“Or a solid exoskeleton,” Moriarty added with a fey giggle. “You’ve _really_ got to step on a roach to snuff the life out of it. Or hit it with a brick.”

“That’s a very messy and inelegant way of exterminating a pest,” Teatime commented with a quirk of his lips. “A neater way would be with a small jar and some gas.”

“Or a sharp pin—then you could watch it squirm and wriggle, kicking its little legs about like a dancer,” the Master said with a grin at the image. “It’s always more fun to watch them struggle.”

“What about you, sir?” Teatime said suddenly, swiveling to stare at Moriarty.

“Me?” he asked, touching a hand to his chest with a wide-eyed and convincingly innocent state. 

“Yes, sir. I was curious about your story, sir. How is it you came to be here?”

“Do you know, I can’t quite remember. Isn’t that something? I’ve usually got a devil of a memory—my mother used to say I had a devil in me, period, but she was something of an idiot—but right now I’m drawing up a rather tidy blank. There was a pool, one of my delightful little bombs, that intriguing Sherlock and his loyal guard dog… They were about to do something incredibly heroic and utterly pointless, I’m sure, but I blinked and suddenly found myself here. I suppose the brilliant fool did the noble thing and blew us all up. I bet he thought he was doing the world a favor, taking me out of it. How depressingly narrow-minded of him—I had expected so much more out of that darling.”

“You two really don’t know where you are?” the Master said snidely with a snort of a laugh. “If you’re what’s passing for talent these days, I weep for the universe. Not much with the detecting skills, are you?”

“Don’t speak to me about _detecting_ ,” Moriarty hissed, his face suddenly venomous, hands tightening into claws atop the table. 

The Master simply stared coolly back at him, unperturbed. “There’s potential there, boy-o, but you don’t intimidate _me_. I’ve destroyed the president of my people. I’ve looked into the Untempered Schism. I’ve decimated whole _planets_ simply for a laugh. You’re puny compared to me.”

“And yet here you are,” Moriarty said with a slow-spreading smile, tapping the table to underscore each taunting word. “If you’re so great and mighty, my pet, why have you been here so many times before, eh? Answer me that.”

“I had a tutor once,” Teatime spoke up. “Who told me about fate and destiny. He argued that we all must follow a path set before us by a greater being—a god, a higher power, the universe, if you will. He suggested that free will was only an illusion. That we are merely puppets being toyed with by an uncaring cosmos.”

“And what did you say to that?” the Master asked. Something about this bizarre doll of a man was mesmerizing, like a light that drew flies in to their quick and sizzling death. 

“I showed him that gods and ‘higher beings’ weren’t the only ones who could make people into puppets. I believe he changed his mind, but he never said anything more to me. It can be difficult to speak with your lips sewn together.” He giggled, and it was a most unsettling sound.

“You were saying,” Moriarty said, bringing the conversation back to point, eyes firmly locked on the Master, “that you know exactly where we are, sweetie?”

“Sure you have the intellect necessary to grasp something this existential?” the Master taunted with a grin. 

Moriarty was silent for a long moment, face smooth and expressionless. Finally, he leaned back, smoothing the front of his suit and sweeping a quick hand through his short dark hair. “You have no idea who I am,” he said calmly. “I prefer to live outside of the public eye—I have very little desire for getting my own hands dirty. Especially with people that are beneath me. Suffice it to say that there is only one man on Earth who comes close to being my equal. Do you know how boring life can be — when you have only _one_ worthy opponent? It can be such a bloody _effort_ to get him to come out and play.”

The Master straightened in his chair, a small muscle jumping at his jaw. “I understand you completely—understand, and perhaps even sympathize a little.”

“Really?” Moriarty said, an eyebrow arching in disbelief. “What I’ve observed of you thus far would suggest that sympathy is entirely out of your reach.”

The Master laughed and clapped his hands dramatically. “Very good, _very_ good. Oh, you _are_ fun! Tell me, what are your views on Teletubbies?”

“The children’s programme? Nonsensical drivel.”

“Isn’t it just? You _humans_ and your pathetic forms of entertainment—you amuse me so much, like a bunch of ants scurrying about with cubes of sugar.”

Moriarty leaned forward. “You are a fascinating individual—what is your name?”

“Are you sure that’s wise?” the Master asked. “Perhaps we should remain anonymous to each other.”

“Ah, but when we get out of this place... Suppose I would be interested in a mutually beneficent partnership? A man like you, with such like-minded views, could be quite helpful to my future plans.”

“The only name I go by these days is ‘Master’,” he replied. “And what shall I call you?”

“Jim Moriarty.” He stood and stretched a hand across the table, which the Master shook politely. The two smiled identical crocodile smiles, knowing full well that wheels and cogs were turning in the other’s brain, and that such a partnership would only end in blood and ashes. 

“Master. That’s a funny sort of name,” Teatime said, surfacing from whatever strange daydream had taken hold of him. “Mister Master, how do you do? And Jimmy Moriarty, very fine to meet you. My name is Teatime. Jonathan Teatime. Tell me, gentleman. If you were to go about inhuming Death, how would you approach the matter?”

“That would be quite an undertaking. It would require some thought,” Moriarty said.

“Indeed. I’ve devoted almost a full evening to the logistics, and I believe I may have refined it a bit, now that I've met his granddaughter. I was just… Curious. Of what you fine gentlemen would do.”

“May I ask you a personal question?” said the Master.

“Just be sure to make it an _interesting_ question,” Teatime replied. “Stupid questions make me quite angry, and I do so hate to be bored.”

“A quality we share,” Moriarty murmured beneath his breath.

“This girl who killed you—is she a worthy opponent?”

“Oh yes, I would say so,” Teatime said readily. “She is a most singular girl…”

“Yes, you mentioned,” Moriarty said.

“Very quick to slap—there aren't many women with such ready hands. Intelligent, yes, and thinks quickly. And in touch with her… inner babysitter.”

The Master and Moriarty simply exchanged blank looks.

“Being Death’s granddaughter, she has abilities beyond the pale. Most assassins are good at entering rooms where they are not wanted—I pride myself on my ability to maneuver down chimneys in particular—but she can simply walk through walls directly. An enviable talent. I cannot help but wonder if she would be any different, had she been admitted to the Assassin’s Guild at a young age, like me.” Teatime glanced up at the other two. “And what of your foils?”

“He’s the most interfering, self-righteous, idiotic person in the universe,” the Master said readily. “Quick to run, quick to cry, quick to be ridiculous. He’s constantly trying to ‘show me mercy’, the pathetic twat.” At Moriarty’s questioning eyebrow, the Master clarified, “I was Prime Minister for a few fun-filled months—something about British slang rubs off on you.”

“It seems to me there is more to it than that, Mister Master,” Teatime said.

“…He was my friend. My closest friend. Until the drumbeat became too much. Until he decided to be disgustingly noble and spoil my fun. We’re the only two left, he and I. Two sides of the same coin. The universe can’t have one without the other.”

“Such a familiar ring of truth,” Moriarty sighed with a smile. “But for the noble quality, I would almost say we share the same enemy. Mine is far too self-serving to be considered _noble_ , the little darling. But his ends are so often in line with the so-called _justice system_ that many would make the mistake of calling him heroic. He’s halfway into the dark already—it would be so delightful to push him the necessary few steps forward.”

The sudden sound of footsteps silenced them; three pairs of eyes swiveled to the right just as a man in a leather jacket, sunglasses, and cowboy boots stepped into the small circle of light. The newcomer ran a hand through his unruly dark hair and cleared his throat with a sideways smirk.

“Hanging in there, boys?” the newcomer asked.

“Who, pray tell, are you?” Teatime asked.

“Name’s Crowley—think of me as a… Middleman. I’m just popping in here with some news from the big boss. Jonathan Teatime?”

“It’s pronounced Te-ah tim-eh,” Teatime corrected coldly.

“Yeah, okay, sorry about that,” Crowley said carelessly. “Just got the news—you’re wanted back up on top. Seems a pointy-hatted fellow is about to do some magic to bring you back to life. You’ve got a second chance, pal. I suggest you make the most of it.”

“I can get my hands on Susan Sto Helit again? And that delightful sword of her grandfather’s?” Teatime straightened in his chair, face alight with fiendish glee.

“Uh… Yes? If you want. I’d step smartly if I were you,” Crowley suggested, pointing at a white door that had suddenly appeared, creaking open with a blast of light.

Teatime wasted no time for words, standing quickly and springing through the doorway. The door immediately snapped shut behind him, disappearing with a soft pop.

“And what about us?” Moriarty demanded.

“You fine gentlemen will just have to wait a bit longer,” Crowley said apologetically. “Your… Files are still being processed.” He nodded, straightened his sunglasses, turned on his heel and disappeared back into the darkness.

“…You never actually answered my question,” Moriarty said in the silence that followed. “ _Where_ are we?”

“The Limbo of Authorial Intent,” the Master said with a sigh, slumping back into his chair. “Sorry, Jimbo, but we’re stuck here until the writers decide what to do with us. You don’t happen to have a deck of cards on you, do you? I could go for a game of Go Fish, if you're interested…”


End file.
